


These beautiful upstagings of what we suffer

by oftirnanog



Series: You've got the love I need to see me through [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Frottage, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Angst, Sexual Tension, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:17:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftirnanog/pseuds/oftirnanog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles goes away to Berkeley with Lydia, and it’s far enough from where Danny’s studying computer programming that his need to resolutely remind himself that Stiles is straight turns into an occasional need rather than a constant one. Out of sight, out of mind turns out to be a fairly accurate cliché. </p><p>Until Stiles comes home after his first year with a boyfriend. As in a male person that Stiles is dating. That Stiles kisses hello and good-bye. That Stiles curls into on the couch when they have a movie night and that Stiles laces his fingers with, casually and comfortably and in a way that makes something crack open in Danny’s chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These beautiful upstagings of what we suffer

**Author's Note:**

> This fits into the [You've got the love](https://archiveofourown.org/series/38810) 'verse and takes place roughly concurrent with the first part of the series but with a focus (obviously) on Stiles/Danny. 
> 
> It is so completely unnecessary to read the other fics in this series that it's actually hilarious. I mostly just want to keep all the fics in this 'verse in one easy place :D
> 
> (Title from 'We Are Always Too Late' by Eavan Boland)

It’s Stiles that Danny notices it on first. Before Jackson leaves. Before Allison and Scott start avoiding each other. Before Lydia starts to fall off the deep end. Even before Isaac, Erica, and Boyd turn into the leather triplets and start exuding an inexplicable and hostile arrogance. He notices Stiles first.

The way he stops with the playful banter, with the strange, insistent questions that Danny hadn’t realized he’d grown accustomed to until they were gone. He’s known Stiles for years. Since they were kids. And while they’ve never really been friends, they’ve been lab partners, and acquaintances, and someone to borrow homework from if they missed class and their respective best friends were somewhat less than reliable.

Stiles has always been a force of vibrating energy and intelligence, the one always asking questions in class while one foot taps incessantly against his chair and the other leg jitters in tandem, knee moving up and down like if he stops moving he’ll explode right out of his skin. And they’re always the right questions, the probing questions, the ones that seek more information rather than seek to rehash what’s already been said. It’s something Danny’s always admired in Stiles even if he has a tendency to talk too much and chew unattractively on the end of his highlighter.

But he’s quieter now. More still. There’s a darkness hovering over his features that has Danny curious. Concerned. He looks like he did after his mom died. And, sure, there’ve been strange deaths in Beacon Hills of late. And Danny knows Stiles must get information from his dad regarding all of it. But that’s normally the kind of thing that makes Stiles inquisitive, invasive with his questions, that makes him exhibit a level of excitement that most would consider inappropriate when applied to dead bodies.

This is something else.

It’s the kind of thing Danny could brush off if weren’t for everything else. If it weren’t for Isaac, and Erica, and Boyd and their hostile arrogance; if Lydia weren’t falling off the deep end; if Scott and Allison weren’t avoiding each other. 

If Jackson hadn’t left.

So now Danny wants to know. He needs to know how the people around him, the people who are, for the most part, supposed to be his friends, have somehow gotten caught up in something that he apparently knows nothing about. So Danny’s going to find out.

He starts with Stiles because he noticed him first. He starts with Stiles because he’s most worried about Stiles, which, incidentally, is something else he doesn’t quite understand. He’s been worried about Jackson before. He’s even been worried about Lydia and Allison before. But Stiles is never someone who’s been on Danny’s worry radar. Jackson often provided more than enough distraction. And Stiles has Scott. Is supposed to have Scott, anyway. But he’s noticed how much time he spends with Isaac now. Has noticed the dismissive, defensive tone Stiles adopts when Scott even mentions Isaac. 

And that new look on Stiles’ face—the darkened, hardened one of practiced detachment—has Danny more than a little concerned.

He manages to get to him while they’re working on a lab report since that seems to be the only way to get to Stiles anymore. He resolutely doesn’t linger in the halls, disappears at lunch, and takes off after lacrosse practice without so much as changing some days.

Stiles is in the middle of a drawn out quasi-ramble about chemical equations when Danny interrupts him mid-sentence. It’s not very smooth, or really very sensitive given the way Stiles looks lately, but he can’t help the way it bursts from his mouth, “What’s going on, Stiles?”

“We’re writing a lab report?” Stiles tries, the question laced with deflecting sarcasm.

“Don’t play dumb. C’mon. I’m not blind,” Danny persists. “You think I haven’t figured out there’s something weird going on? Jackson’s gone. I don’t know what’s wrong with Lydia. Scott and Allison aren’t speaking. Scott and Isaac are.”

Danny doesn’t miss the way Stiles flinches at the mention of Scott and Isaac.

“Can you just,” Danny says, softening. “Can you just tell me what’s going on? I’m beginning to think I’ve wandered into some weird Buffyverse Twilight Zone with how strangely everyone’s behaving.”

He tries a chuckle, expects Stiles to join in. He really doesn’t expect the resigned and agonizingly apologetic expression that he gets instead.

“We’re going to need Scott for this,” Stiles sighs, and he just sounds so tired that Danny wants to wrap him in his arms. And that’s a new and unsettling development. Danny thinks he may end up far deeper in this than he really wants, but one glance at the bags under Stiles’ eyes and he really doesn’t care.

Of course, that’s before he finds out it’s werewolves.

*

Senior year and Danny finds himself firmly ensconced in the human quartet that is Allison, Lydia, Stiles, and himself. Allison and Scott finally put a permanent end to their Shakespearean tragedy of a relationship, allowing them to become good friends instead, and allowing Allison to refocus her misplaced vengeance on their mutual supernatural enemies. Similarly, Stiles abandoned his pursuit of Lydia Martin and in lieu of infatuation is a growing mutual respect and partnership. They make a remarkable, if sometimes terrifying, team—both being too smart for their own good and resourceful as all hell. 

Danny contributes his own, not inconsiderable skills, usually in the hacking department, but also in the common sense department. It’s remarkable how often the glaring holes in their plans go overlooked until Danny points them out. He’s wondered, on more than one occasion, how they ever got by without him. Though from what Stiles told him that first night of the Big Werewolf RevealTM (as Stiles so fondly calls it—capitals and all), they almost hadn’t. 

Even now—now that they all more or less get along, now that they have more cohesive plans and an ever-improving knowledge of what they’re dealing with, now that the beta wolves have learned greater control—well, Danny’s still not sure how they’ve made it this far. Alive, and unscathed for a given value of the word.

At the moment he’s sitting at Stiles’ desk, scrolling through a list of search hits for manticores and cross-referencing it with the bestiary, because that’s just Danny’s life now. Stiles is on the floor leaning against his bed with papers spread in front of him and several old tomes of ancient mythology, none of which are proving very helpful. Amid the various photocopied articles pertaining to various lore are several police reports he “borrowed” from his dad regarding a recent string of disappearances one town over. 

Danny clicks on something that looks just obscure enough to be legit when he hears Stiles huff in frustration followed by the slamming of a book being violently shut.

Danny glances back and gives Stiles a sympathetic look, tries not to notice how inviting his hair looks, mussed and uneven from where Stiles has been running his fingers through it. “No luck?” he asks.

“It’s just…” Stiles shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair again, this time causing it to stick up at funny angle. “Fucking manticores? Really? Why can’t it ever be unicorns?”

“Unicorns?” Danny says incredulously.

“Yeah,” Stiles replies. “Unicorns. We run around with a pack of werewolves who have us researching fucking manticores. I don’t think unicorns are that much of a stretch.”

Danny rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I meant. I just don’t think unicorns tend to cause trouble.” 

Stiles scrubs a hand over his face and Danny swallows, forcibly turning back to the computer screen and away from Stiles’ stupid long fingers. 

“With our luck they’d wind up evil anyway,” Stiles says. “Like fairies. They sound benign and then they try to lure you away with magical entrapping food.”

“Anyone who thinks fairies sound benign has been reading the wrong stories,” Danny replies.

“Yeah, I know. Can’t a guy try optimism on for a change?”

Danny feels the chair shift back slightly under the sudden weight of Stiles leaning over his shoulder. He can feel Stiles’ breath tickling over his ear and Danny bites the inside of his cheek, reminding himself that Stiles is straight for what seems like the thousandth time in the past two hours. It’s starting to become a problem.

He’s not sure exactly when it happened, when exactly Stiles went from being the slightly annoying lab partner that barely registered on Danny’s radar to the staggeringly perceptive, sometimes brutally efficient, friend that he is now—to the guy who’s hands he can’t stop staring at, to the first person Danny thinks to tell when he uncovers useful information, to the first person Danny thinks to check is all right after their supernatural run-ins.

There’s no single moment that Danny can pinpoint, only a culmination of little things—Stiles fist-pumping when a new mountain ash enchantment works; Stiles tending carefully, but thoroughly to a gash in Danny’s thigh; Stiles getting increasingly enthusiastic about the research they do even as it uncovers something absurdly dangerous—until one day something as stupid as Stiles stubbing his toe on a tree root while tracking something in the woods is enough to stop Danny short and think “Oh, shit, I might be in love with this guy.”

And right now the breath on Danny’s neck is almost more than he can handle, is certainly enough to make him want to turn and cover Stiles’ stupidly attractive mouth with his own.

So it’s become something of a mantra for Danny, something to keep him sane, or at least keep him grounded in reality. He’s straight, he’s straight, he’s straight, he’s straight. He just hopes he doesn’t wind up saying it out loud one of these days.

“Danny?” Stiles says, in the tone of someone who’s repeated himself several times already.

“Hm?”

“Gettin’ tired there, buddy?” Stiles teases, and then—Jesus—starts massaging Danny’s shoulders.

“Yeah, just stressed,” Danny says, trying to keep his voice even. It’s true, anyway, and his current situation isn’t helping.

“Seriously, man,” Stiles says, digging his fingers harder into the muscle of Danny’s shoulders, and he sounds concerned now, Danny can tell he’s frowning without even having to look at him. “Your muscles are knotted like crazy.”

“Yeah, well,” is all Danny can manage in response.

He’s just about to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from moaning out loud, when Stiles’ hands abruptly stop and he lurches forward over Danny’s shoulder to point at something on the computer screen, causing Danny to clamp down on his tongue instead.

Danny makes a pained sound that Stiles doesn’t notice, too busy muttering to himself and running his finger over the body of text.

“Haha!” Stiles exclaims, jumping back so quickly his hand nearly collides with Danny’s face. “That’s it!”

“What?” Danny says, less to Stiles and more in an attempt to reorient himself in the situation. His head is a jumble of hormones and pain and the lingering scent of Stiles’ deodorant, which shouldn’t be as much of a turn on as it is, and he can’t even remember what they were researching in the first place.

“Derek, man, we got something,” Stiles says from the other side of the room, already on his cell phone.

Danny looks at the screen to try and find the source of Stiles’ triumph.

Manticores. Right.

Before he has a chance to really look at the article, Stiles is grabbing the sleeve of his shirt and dragging him from the room. Danny doesn’t even hesitate.

Yeah. It’s a problem.

*

Stiles goes away to Berkeley with Lydia, and it’s far enough from where Danny’s studying computer programming that his need to resolutely remind himself that Stiles is straight turns into an occasional need rather than a constant one. Out of sight, out of mind turns out to be a fairly accurate cliché. 

Until Stiles comes home after his first year with a boyfriend. As in a male person that Stiles is dating. That Stiles kisses hello and good-bye. That Stiles curls into on the couch when they have a movie night and that Stiles laces his fingers with, casually and comfortably and in a way that makes something crack open in Danny’s chest.

Danny doesn’t even realize he’s angry with Stiles until Stiles calls him out on it.

They’re at Stiles’ house playing video games, and Danny will admit that he hasn’t really been trying to make conversation. Stiles has been playing terribly for an hour when he pauses the game just as Danny’s in the middle of a kill.

It takes him longer than it should to figure out why the game’s stopped.

Stiles is staring at him, leg pulled up on the couch and tucked under him so that he’s angled toward Danny. Danny glances sideways and tries not to shift uncomfortably. He thinks he does pretty well.

“Are you mad at me for something?” Stiles asks.

“What?” Danny says, and snaps his head around to look at Stiles head on.

Stiles looks at him with raised eyebrows and the expression is so typically Stiles that Danny’s not sure whether he wants to laugh or roll his eyes. 

“We haven’t had a real conversation since I got back,” Stiles says.

Danny sighs and lets his head fall back against the couch. “No. I’m not mad at you, Stiles.”

It’s not strictly true, but Danny’s having trouble sorting through exactly what he’s feeling, so he’s giving himself a free pass on this one. 

“Ooookay,” Stiles replies. He looks a little like he wants to hit Danny, and he wouldn’t blame him really.

It’s not even that Stiles’ dating someone—a someone who puts Stiles firmly in the realm of attracted-to-guys—makes Danny’s stomach plummet to the vicinity of his kneecaps every time he thinks about it. It’s really more to do with the fact that Stiles didn’t tell him.

“You didn’t even tell me,” Danny blurts out. He should really work on coming to these conclusions before his mouth does. It’s making it hard to keep up with his own end of the conversation.

“About Andy?” 

“No – I mean, yes, but –” Danny stops and takes a breath. “I didn’t even know you liked guys.”

Stiles chuckles, a smile claiming one corner of his mouth, and looks at where his hands are fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Danny’s not sure what to make of it.

“Of all people, you could’ve talked to me,” Danny says. He thinks he might sound desperate, even petulant, but can’t really bring himself to care.

“I was still figuring things out,” Stiles says with a shrug. “I wasn’t even sure how much I liked guys. It was always Lydia”—he raises his hands, palms out and fingers wide—“for so long that…I don’t know.” He shrugs again. “I didn’t want you think I was just using you as a gay guru.”

Danny gets that, maybe, but he’s still not happy about it.

“And then with Andy, I hadn’t told my dad yet, I hadn’t even told Scott, if that makes you feel any better, and I just…maybe I didn’t know how.”

“So you chickened out on having to tell anyone by showing up with your boyfriend and letting them figure it out for themselves?”

“It sounds terrible when you put it like that.”

Danny shrugs like he doesn’t care, throws Stiles a smile so he knows he’s teasing, and already things feel easier between them.

“And Lydia knew,” Danny points out.

“Well, yeah, we go to school together. I see her every day. I couldn’t hide that. I mean, I probably could’ve. We did okay with the whole werewolf thing for a while, but Lydia’s, like, terrifyingly perceptive. She would’ve found out anyway.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Oh I’m definitely right.”

They’re silent for a moment, but it’s comfortable silence. Not weighty and stifling like it’s been the past couple weeks.

“So you want to keep playing?” Stiles asks.

“That depends. Are you actually going to play, or am I going to have to continue competing with a corpse? Because I’m beating you so badly it’s not even fun.”

“Oh bring it on,” Stiles says, rearranging himself so he’s leaning forward, elbows braced on his thighs.

And watching him play, Danny still wants to reach over and trail his fingers over Stiles’ neck; he still wants kiss those stupidly inviting lips and maybe suck one of Stiles’ long fingers into his mouth. And even though Stiles has a boyfriend now, even though they’ve been friends for years and Stiles has never given any real indication he might be interested in Danny that way, there is new a flicker of possibility. And that’s enough for now.

*

Somewhere near the middle of his second year of computer programming, Danny starts cooking. A lot. It becomes his preferred method of procrastination. He starts out simple: pasta dishes, roast chicken, stir fries; and before he knows it he’s scouring the internet for increasingly complex recipes like sea scallops with sauce meuniere, and roast Cornish game hens with fruit stuffing, and Cognac shrimp with beurre blanc.

It’s one Sunday morning, when he’s home for the weekend and decides to make brie-stuffed pain perdu with a cranberry reduction sauce, that his mother suggests culinary school. 

Danny enrolls at the Culinary Institute of America in St. Helena and never looks back.

*

The Christmas of Danny’s second year of culinary school and everyone else’s fourth year of college, Stiles throws his third annual party. Derek brings a girlfriend, as does Isaac, Erica shows off a shiny new engagement ring while Boyd beams at her. Lydia also brings a girlfriend, which surprises Danny for about a second, only because he’d thought that would unfold with Allison. Allison for her part hangs awkwardly around Scott for the parts of the evening she’s not with Stiles and Danny.

She keeps glancing at Lydia, and Danny wonders when those two are going to figure things out.

And then Danny finds himself alone with Stiles after everyone else has left.

Stiles is making his way through the living room, collecting empty cups and crumpled napkins, and Danny heads to the kitchen to help load the dishwasher.

“You don’t have to do that,” Stiles says, dumping the glasses in his hand onto the counter.

“I’m not leaving you with all this,” Danny insists. His mother trained him too well to ignore such a mess and leave it with the host.

“Why not? Everyone else did?” He’s completely serious, but not at all grudging about it. That’s just how Stiles is. Always willing to clean up someone else’s mess. Although in this case he more or less brought it on himself.

Danny ignores him and reaches for the glasses he just brought in.

“Stop stop stop,” Stiles says, pushing the rack in and closing the dishwasher before Danny has time to protest. “I wasn’t even going to deal with this tonight. Leave it. Seriously. You’re stressing me out.”

Danny’s about to open his mouth with some kind of counter argument he hasn’t even formed yet, when Stiles’ stomach lets out an almighty growl of hunger. And, well, that? Is something Danny can help with.

“At least let me make you something to eat,” Danny offers, already making his way to Stiles’ fridge to see if he has eggs.

“Pancakes?” Stiles suggests, hopping up on the counter.

Danny glances at him, two eggs in hand, and smiles. “Sure.” As though he were capable of denying Stiles anything. He could have asked for eggs Benedict and Danny would have whipped up a Hollandaise sauce right then and there.

It’s been a while since he’s seen Stiles. Last he talked to him he’d been dating a girl in one of his seminar classes. Something about theories of human nature. 

“So how’s, uh…” Shit. Danny forgets her name. He pauses in the middle of measuring flour, racking his brain while Stiles lets him suffer.

He sends a pleading look to Stiles’ when he gives up on trying to remember her name and Stiles shakes his head at him, grin a mile wide. “Beth?”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about. It didn’t work out. Apparently her ex-boyfriend is back in the picture.” There’s something derisive in his voice and Danny raises his eyebrows at him.

“You don’t believe her?” he asks, stirring the milk and eggs into the dry ingredients with care no to over-mix it.

“Well, it was rather too conveniently after she found out about my ex-boyfriend, so…”

“She dumped you because you’re bi?!” Danny almost shouts it, but he can’t help how it comes out. He’s met enough bisexual people to know the discrimination is there. That the disbelief is there, from both sides, gay or straight, but it doesn’t stop him from being angry that’s it’s happening to Stiles.

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know, man. The timing was suspicious. Especially coupled with her less than enthusiastic reaction when she found out.” Danny frowns and Stiles offers him a small smile. “Not the first time, probably won’t be the last.”

“What?” Danny says, more demanding than he would like, but Stiles has never mentioned any of this before. “When?”

“Andy?” Stiles says, like this is something Danny should already know.

“Andy fucking broke up with you because he fucking found out you were bi?” Danny is furious. He wants to punch Andy right across the jaw because he remembers how upset Stiles was about that breakup.

“I thought you knew that.”

“Obviously not.”

“Dude, relax. It’s fine. I mean,” Stiles runs a hand over his face, so characteristic of him in times of frustration, and Danny wants grab that hand and maybe kiss its palm, let Stiles know that not everyone is that much of a douche bag. “It’s not fine, but what am I going to do?”

“Ignorant pricks,” Danny comments. He wants to pull Stiles off the counter and into his arms, wants to kiss him until he forgets anyone that ever made him feel less than, that ever made him feel like damaged goods for his sexuality. He’s starting to wonder why he hasn’t yet. Usually it’s been that Stiles is seeing someone, but that’s not the case anymore. Danny swallows and tries to imagine how it would go. What would happen if he walked the few steps to Stiles and fit himself between his legs, splayed so suggestively right now, let his hands rest on his hips, fingers brushing the small of his back.

“You’re dripping,” Stiles says, jerking Danny out of his thoughts. It takes him a moment to realize what Stiles is talking about and remembers the batter-covered spoon grasped in his hand.

He blinks, looks down at the spots of batter that, sure enough, now decorate the tiled floor, and belatedly puts his hand under it. “Sorry,” he says, turning and placing the spoon on the counter before reaching down to wipe the floor with a paper towel.

“Are you actually going to feed me or are just going to make an even bigger mess of my kitchen?” Stiles asks. He keeps his tone light. There’s no edge to it. It’s also a deliberate change of subject. Stiles likes to act like things just roll off him, like he’s not affected. Likes to be the guy who takes things in stride and doesn’t care what other people think, but Danny’s known him long enough to recognize when he’s fronting.

He’s also known him long enough to know when to stop pushing.

Ten minutes later he sets a plate of pancakes in front of Stiles accompanied by real maple syrup.

“Would you like some pancakes with your syrup?” Danny asks as Stiles douses his plate to the point that the syrup creates a moat around the pancakes. “You’re not even going to taste pancake.”

“There’s no such thing as too much maple syrup,” Stiles protests and follows it with a bite so large he barely fits it into his mouth. “Oh my god,” he says, muffled by the food in his mouth. He groans around it and Danny shifts in his seat, trying to keep his mind away from inappropriate territory. It’s not as easy as Danny hopes. 

“These are the best pancakes I’ve ever had,” Stiles says once he’s swallowed. “Seriously.”

“Better than your dad’s?” Danny asks.

“My dad can’t make pancakes,” Stiles replies. “Not that I’d let him make pancakes. He can have fruit for breakfast. With yogurt. No pancakes.” He takes another enormous bite and continues to talk through that mouthful too. “They’re even better than my mom’s”

Danny raises his eyebrows. “High praise.”

“I mean it’s been awhile since I’ve had hers, but these are fucking delicious.”

“Maybe it’s just because they’re drowning in maple syrup,” Danny suggests, unsure how to navigate a conversation that involves Stiles’ mother. He doesn’t talk about her much and Danny never knows how to respond when he does. He hates that he doesn’t know what to do. Hates that he gets awkward and his words become stilted and unsure, but he’s never dealt with a loss like that, still even has all his grandparents, and he doesn’t want to say something wrong. Doesn’t want to open old wounds, to scratch at something that might only be tentatively healed over.

“I didn’t even think you’d have that,” Danny says, gesturing to the bottle of syrup, mostly because he can’t think of anything else to say.

“Yeah, my dad insists on it. Or, I guess we both do,” Stiles says. He takes a long gulp of water, wherein Danny can’t help staring at his throat, before continuing. “When I was about…seven, I guess, we took this trip to Vermont. Me and my dad and my mom. We ate so much maple syrup while we were there and my mom always made a point of having it in the house after that. Aunt Jemima rather pales in comparison.”

“Yeah, I guess it does,” Danny says, grinning. 

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Stiles asks.

“Not really hungry,” Danny replies, which is true, though mostly he’s too preoccupied watching Stiles to bother.

“Here,” Stiles says, cutting a piece of pancake and dragging it through the pool of syrup. He holds it out to Danny, where it drips syrup onto the table, and says, “Eat.”

Danny leans forward and takes the bite of pancake. It’s delicious, if he does say so himself, even with the excess syrup. “Mhmm,” he says.

Stiles grins at him and it’s so impossibly fond that Danny is overcome for a moment with the impulse to lean forward again, further this time, and kiss the syrup right off Stiles’ lips. Instead he returns the smile and leans back in his chair.

“You,” Stiles says, pointing the fork forcefully in Danny’s direction, “are a culinary genius. Best decision you ever made.”

“Yeah, I think it was a pretty good one,” Danny says, and he’s not sure he means culinary school, or making Stiles pancakes, but it’s true either way so it doesn’t really matter.

They sit in silence for the next few minutes, the only sound coming from the scrape of cutlery against plate.

“Hey Danny?” Stiles says.

“Hm.”

“Thanks.” 

Danny nods and knows it’s not just for the pancakes. 

*

The next thing Danny knows he’s waking up in a hospital bed. Everything aches and there’s a particular burn hovering around the left side of his face. He pulls himself up in the bed, trying not to jostle his limbs too much, and sees Stiles asleep in one of the chairs.

Danny blinks a few times, does a cursory exam of his body for wounds, and tries to remember what happened.

They’d been tracking something in the woods. Harpies. Because it’s never a normal day in Beacon Hills, even the day after Christmas. He doesn’t remember much beyond that, just a warning shout to Stiles, and then darkness.

His throat is impossibly dry and he tries to swallow, but just ends up coughing. It’s enough to wake Stiles, who bolts upright and nearly falls out of the chair with all the grace he had in high school. Flailing limbs that Danny thought he’d grown out of.

Stiles scrambles to his feet and passes Danny a cup of water, which Danny downs gratefully.

“Whoa there,” Stiles says, placing a gentle hand on the cup to slow Danny down. “Not so fast there, cowboy.”

“Cowboy?” Danny asks, incredulous, and shit, he sounds like he hasn’t used his voice in years.

“Don’t ask me to make sense when I’ve just woken up, it’s not going to happen.”

“It actually happens quite a lot,” Danny counters, thinking of all the times Stiles has been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night by the pack to be interrogated about the latest supernatural phenomena invading Beacon Hills.

“Yeah, well, usually I’m not sleeping in a hospital.”

“I don’t know how true that is either,” Danny says, shifting down in the bed so he’s more or less lying down again.

“We do spend an inordinate amount of time here,” Stiles concedes. He picks at the stiff sheet covering Danny and then glances up at him. “How you feeling?”

“Like I was hit by a bus,” Danny says. “What happened?”

“Harpies.”

“Yeah, that much I remember.”

“Do you remember throwing yourself in front of me when one dived at my head?” Stiles asks. He sounds kind of pissed off.

“Not really…” Danny says, although now that Stiles mentions it, he might remember something to that effect.

“It was a monumentally stupid thing to do, Danny.” And yeah, Stiles is pissed.

“What was I supposed to do? Let it maul you?”

“Yes!” Stiles shouts, and Danny thinks when it comes to monumentally stupid things this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

“That would’ve been stupid,” Danny replies, keeping his voice level to counter Stiles’ volume and also because his throat isn’t giving him much choice in the matter.

“What, because you’re so infallible now?” Stiles demands. “I’m not any more fragile than you are, last I checked. Unless you have a bite you haven’t shown anyone. Although judging by the gashes all over your face and neck I’m going to guess that’s not the case.”

“Can you please stop shouting?” Danny asks. His head is starting to throb.

Stiles heaves a sigh and sits on the edge of Danny’s bed.

“Sorry,” he says, almost sounding like he means it. “You’re lucky Allison had her crossbow though.”

“Is everyone else-”

“They’re fine. Lydia’s got a few scratches, but that’s it.”

Danny nods and then thinks about what Stiles said about gashes. “What does my face look like?”

Stiles gives him a somewhat pained, mostly sympathetic look. “It could be worse?”

“Give me a mirror, Stiles.”

“They’re fresh wounds, so I mean, it won’t look so…angry, once it’s healed.”

“Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and digs a mirror out of the side table drawer.

It’s actually not as bad as Danny was expecting, given Stiles’ reaction to the question. There’s a large gash running almost the full length of his jaw on his left side and a smaller wound under his eye that will probably be nearly invisible once it’s healed. There’s a dressing over his neck so Danny’s guessing that particular cut is going to leave an impressive scar. The black eye probably isn’t helping the overall look.

“Not that bad,” he says, keeping his voice casual.

“All right, that was a better reaction than I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know. That one on your neck is going to be pretty obvious.”

“Yeah I figured as much. Stitches?”

“Twelve.” Stiles’ voice is suddenly quiet. “Just missed your artery.”

“Shit,” Danny says, running his fingers over the gauze and examining it in the mirror as though he might be able to see through it to the wound.

“You almost died,” Stiles says. His voice is so flat that it startles Danny into looking at him.

“I didn’t,” he replies, knowing that answer will do nothing to satisfy Stiles.

“That’s not the point,” Stiles says. “You almost died and it would’ve been my fault.”

“Stiles, Jesus Christ, that is not-”

“If you ever jump between me and something dangerous again without thinking of the consequences first, I’ll kill you myself,” Stiles says.

Danny wants to say okay. He wants to assure Stiles that he won’t pull stupid moves that endanger his own life over Stiles’ but he knows it’s not true. He knows that if he were to do it all over again, he’d do it exactly the same way.

“I can’t promise that,” Danny says quietly.

Stiles stares at him for a few moments, long enough to make Danny self-conscious, before shaking his head on a sigh and then arranging himself so that he’s lying beside Danny on the bed. He can feel Stiles’ breath on his neck when he turns to face him.

“You’re an asshole,” Stiles whispers.

It’s so unexpected that Danny laughs out loud, and then immediately regrets it when the stitches pull and his abs strain unpleasantly. He winces and Stiles mirrors the expression. It makes something tighten in Danny’s rib cage. Something that has nothing to do with the injuries he recently sustained. He wants Stiles a bit closer, wants to feel the weight of him, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes; wants to know he’s there. But he’s tired and he’s having trouble processing right now. 

“C’mere,” Danny says, lifting his arm so Stiles can curl into his chest. He doesn’t care what it means. Doesn’t care what Stiles thinks it means. Not right now. All he wants right now is some physical comfort, and Stiles, determined, angry, brilliant Stiles is already lying right next to him.

Stiles hesitates for maybe half a second before moving his head to rest on Danny’s shoulder and even slings an arm across Danny’s stomach, lets one leg drape over one of Danny’s. Stiles must be able to hear Danny’s hear beating at a million miles an hour, but if does he doesn’t say anything, and eventually Danny lets his arm wrap around Stiles’ shoulder, and they fall asleep like that.

And if anyone finds them like that none of them ever say a thing about it.

*

The rest of the school year passes without any further supernatural drama. Danny graduates at the top of his class and with several offers from his chef instructors to put in a good word at various restaurants in the San Francisco area. The claw wounds on his face have healed tolerably well, even the one on his neck is only noticeable at the right angle. 

When Danny gets back to Beacon Hills for the summer, he’s looking forward to relaxing for a few days and catching up with everyone before going on the job hunt. Stiles and Lydia have already been home for about a week, and Erica and Boyd are expected back in a couple days. Allison is supposed to be having a small get-together once everyone’s back in town, and really, it’s going to be a nice change of pace from the insanity that the last few weeks leading up to graduation have been.

So naturally it all goes to hell the minute Danny gets home.

Lydia is waiting on his front porch when the cab pulls up, and she barely lets him get his luggage out of the trunk before she’s rushing up to him, talking so quickly that Danny barely catches a word she says. Mostly he only catches her saying ‘Stiles’ because of course that’s all Danny would hear.

“Whoa,” Danny says. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“You have extra information, right?” Lydia is asking. She’s panicked and frantic and Danny’s just gotten home, so he has no idea what’s going on. “I mean we have the beastiary, but Stiles always has extra information, like stored somewhere. In his brain mostly. I keep telling him to write this shit down. Because of course this would fucking happen!”

“Lydia,” Danny says, grabbing Lydia’s shoulders to stop her hands from flying around her face and get her to look at him. “Slow down. What do you need? Where’s Stiles?”

Lydia visibly swallows and her eyes dart away from Danny’s face before locking in on him. “They have him.”

Danny’s stomach drops, sick and heavy, as the meaning of her words sink in. “Who have… Where? What happened?”

“We don’t kn-” she cuts herself off, frustrated and trying to control her shaking hands. “We know who. And we know where, in theory, but we have no idea how to get him back.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and if the vehement swearing hadn’t been enough of an indication, that’s when Danny knows how bad it is.

“Who has him, Lydia? Who has him?”

“We’re pretty sure they’re the fae of Unseelie Court.” The words leave her throat like she’s choking on them. “They could be from Seelie Court, they could just be general faeries, we don’t know. We were searching the preserve a couple days ago, because there’ve been weird animal deaths, and people getting lost, and a few disappearances. Stiles stepped in one of their faerie rings. No one even realized. I mean, Stiles realized once he’d done it, but…please tell me you know how to get him back, Danny. We’re going to get him back right? He’s not going to wander back like two hundred years from now thinking only a day has passed? Please tell me that’s not really how it works.”

Danny wishes he could reassure her, wishes he could reassure himself because at the moment he feels like he’s about to pass out or throw up or some combination thereof. He tries to think, but all he can focus on is the fact that Stiles isn’t there. He’s suddenly hyperaware of how vital Stiles is to their whole operation. Obviously he’s always known Stiles is valuable, but he’s at a loss as to what to do without him. Danny’s first instinct when confronted with an unknown problem is to talk to Stiles. They research together, bounce ideas off each other, come to conclusions that would have taken them much longer to get to alone.

But then Stiles does that with Lydia too.

“Okay,” Danny says, hands still firmly on Lydia’s shoulders as though that might ground him somehow. Lydia’s gripping his forearms in response, so tightly it almost hurts; it seems she’s doing something similar. “We can figure this out. Where is everyone else?”

“Isaac and Derek are out surveying the preserve for any strange activity or hints of what might be going on, and Scott and Allison are at Stiles’ place trying to find more information. Scott thought there might be something on Stiles’ laptop. I said I’d wait for you.”

“Good. Good. That’s good. There might be. We should go over there and help them,” Danny turns to leave immediately and nearly trips over his suitcase in the process. “Just…I’ll put this inside first.” He grabs the handle of the suitcase and then realizes, “I might have some information too. Let me grab my laptop…I think I still have, uh, some books that might be helpful.”

He feels like his brain is working at half speed and he can’t get it to catch up. His limbs feel sluggish and numb, his palms and the bottoms of his feet tingling. He takes a deep, calming breath because having a panic attack or passing out is not useful to Stiles.

“Danny,” Lydia says as he starts to go inside. She sounds young and scared and Danny doesn’t like it at all, the way it’s another forceful reminder of how wrong everything is right now. 

He turns to look at her.

“What if we don’t-”

Danny cuts her off, can’t let her finish that thought. “We’re going to get him back.”

Lydia nods once, squares her shoulders, and schools her expression into one of determined control. Somehow it makes Danny feel better, even if he knows it’s all for show.

*

They arrive at the Stilinksi household and find Scott and Allison leaning over Stiles’ laptop and flipping through books respectively. Thankfully the sheriff is at work so he won’t be around to wonder what’s going on or ask where his son is. According to Lydia they’ve managed to keep him from finding out that Stiles is even missing. He’s only been gone since the night before, so it was easy enough to say he’d been with Scott.

“Okay,” Danny says, taking a seat beside Scott and scanning the page of the beastiary that Scott has pulled up on the screen. “Tell me exactly what happened after he stepped in the faerie ring.”

“Nothing,” Allison replies. She is remarkably calm in the midst of everyone else’s panic, and only her hard expression and cold tone betray her worry. “We thought he might be fine. We thought it might be one of those stories that don’t have any basis in fact. Like a silver bullet. I mean, we were still worried, but the next day everything still seemed fine…”

“And then?” Danny probes, when Allison shows no signs of continuing.

“Then he showed up the next day looking like he hadn’t slept in days,” Scott adds. “I’ve never seen him look that bad. Not even when his mom was sick.”

“Faerie revels,” Danny says.

“That seems most likely, though he didn’t remember anything about it,” Allison says.

“Is that typical?” Danny asks, knowing full well that they probably have no idea.

“Honestly we don’t know any more than you do at this point,” Allison replies. She’s looking up at him from her spot on the floor and he can see the tension around her eyes and mouth.

“Okay,” Danny says, rubbing at his temples in an attempt to force concentration. “Well, the faerie ring is usually where the revel takes place, right? That’s what the stories and stuff say. So if we show up there tonight what do you think the chances are of finding him?”

Scott shrugs. “I think it’s our best bet at this point.”

“We don’t know how to deal with faeries,” Allison snaps, and Danny has a feeling they’ve gone over this already.

“Do you have a better idea?” Scott demands.

“Stop,” Lydia says, just as Allison opens her mouth to retort. “This isn’t helping.” She lets out a small huff of frustration. “What if we sent someone into the ring? Grab their attention.”

“And who, exactly, would we get to do that?” Allison asks, her voice quiet and all the more intimidating for it. By the way she’s looking at Lydia, Danny thinks she already knows the answer to that question. Danny’s pretty sure he knows the answer too.

“Me. Obviously,” Lydia says.

“Are you nuts?” Scott demands.

“No,” she replied. “Just immune.”

“To werewolf bites,” Scott emphasizes.

“And kanima venom,” Lydia says. “Not to mention siren calls.” The comment is very pointedly aimed at Scott who several months ago nearly drowned himself in an attempt to get to some sirens who’d been terrorizing the coast.

He looks properly sheepish and slumps in his chair at the comment, turning back to the computer screen to continue scanning the page he’s on.

“You have no idea if you’re immune to faerie glamour,” Allison says. She’s wearing a look of barely controlled anger that Danny, were it turned on him, would cower under.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Lydia insists, immune to Allison’s murderous expression along with all the other supernatural phenomena.

“You weren’t immune to Peter,” she says. Her voice is still quiet, like someone who doesn’t want to be overheard, but hasn’t lowered to whispering yet.

It’s a bit more pointed than necessary, in Danny’s opinion, even if she is right. Lydia’s eyes flash as she presses her lips together and turns away from Allison’s challenging stare. She levels her gaze at Danny instead and says, “We haven’t heard what Danny thinks of this idea yet?”

Danny sighs and leans forward in his chair, locking eyes with Lydia. There’s a determination there that’s going to be impossible to argue with. Lydia is nothing if not stubborn. But she’s also smart, and Danny trusts her. He trusts her know when things start to turn nasty and dangerous and trusts her to do everything she can to get Stiles back. And they know how to take precautions. Lydia will be sure to arm herself with every possible defence they can find.

Most of all, when it comes right down to it, he can’t say no to their best plan for getting Stiles back. 

“I think it could work,” he says, not taking his eyes off Lydia. She gives him a subtle nod, and there’s a mutual understanding there. He also doesn’t want to look at the expressions on Scott’s and Allison’s faces when he says it.

Predictably, Scott and Allison both start speaking at once, drowning each other out in their respective bids to talk sense into Lydia and Danny.

“No, listen for a sec,” Danny says, looking first to Allison and then to Scott. “We can prepare for this. It’s not going to be reckless. We’ll be armed, we’ll have defenses.”

“Your dad must have iron-wrought weapons,” Lydia says, turning to Allison.

Allison glares at Lydia, but gives her a grudging, “Yeah.”

“Allison-” Scott tries to protest, but she shakes her head.

“No,” Allison says, cutting him off, and she sighs, leaning back against the bed in defeat. “It’s our best option. Lydia’s the one who has the best chance against them. We already know they can wreak havoc on werewolf senses and Danny and I can act as backup.”

“What—you’re just going to leave the pack out of this?” Scott demands. He sits up so straight he nearly lifts out of the chair. “We can help!”

“You can help by patrolling the preserve and making sure other people stay away,” Lydia tells him. “The last thing we need is stray humans wandering into a hoard of angry fae.”

“But I can’t just not do anything,” Scott says. “He’s my best friend.” 

Scott sounds as lost and desperate as Danny feels. Not at all like they’ve just graduated from a number of prestigious schools and programs, not at all like they’re entering adulthood in a real way for the first time, but like they’re in high school all over again, entering junior year without a clue as to what they’re doing. Danny feels like he did when he found out about werewolves, except Stiles had been there for that. Stiles has been there for everything—every werewolf showdown, every manticore hunt, every encounter with harpies and sirens—Stiles has been there, fighting and scheming and solving problems on the fly in a way none of the rest of them can, save for Lydia. Danny feels his absence like a gaping hole in his chest and they don’t really have a choice but to get him back.

“We all want to get him back, Scott,” Lydia finally says. “We all care about him a lot.”

“We’re not going to let anything happen to him,” Danny adds.

Allison nods, and Scott answers in kind. 

“Okay,” Lydia says, taking charge of the situation. “Let’s do this.”

*

They show up at the preserve a few hours later, armed to the hilt with weapons from Allison’s basement. Lydia’s carrying two iron daggers at her hips and two more in holsters at her calves. Danny has a gun for which they’d managed to find iron bullets. There had been a sword, and even more oddly a scythe, but Danny felt more comfortable with the gun. (He and Stiles always spent a couple days when they were home together at the gun range for target practice.) Allison even managed to scrounge up several quivers of iron-tipped arrows.

Scott and the rest of the pack have set up a perimeter giving them about a half-mile-wide radius around the faerie ring in question. Derek and Isaac had reacted about as well as Scott had to their plan, but Erica was vehemently supportive and Boyd had deemed it their best option, if grudgingly. 

When they reach the faerie ring they’re momentarily paralyzed by the immensity of what they’re about to do. It’s a simple plan, really, when you get right down to the basic points of it. Step into the faerie ring. Wait for them to show up. Bargain. Fight. Flight. Depending on how it all goes down. But suddenly letting Lydia step willingly into a faerie ring that’s already caused so much trouble seems like a colossal task.

Lydia takes a deep breath, pulls the knives at her hips out their sheaths, twirls them around her fingers a few times, and re-sheaths them. Danny vaguely wonders where Lydia learned to handle knives like that, but the momentary look of pride that Allison gives her is enough of an explanation.

“Okay,” Lydia says. “Ready?”

Danny nods, gun at the ready, and it feels so ridiculous in the face of magic to be carrying a gun. He feels horribly unarmed in spite of it all. Allison nocks an arrow and her jaw clenches before she speaks.

“Be careful,” she says.

Lydia gives her a cocky half-smile and replies, “Always am.”

Without a second’s more hesitation Lydia strides forward and steps into the faerie ring with a deliberate finality set into her posture.

And nothing happens.

Lydia turns to look at Danny and Allison, her brow furrowed, but still tensed with anticipation.

“Hey!” Lydia shouts, and Danny jumps, not expecting it. Beside him Allison raises her bow a few inches before lowering again when she realizes there’s no imminent danger yet. “I’m in your precious revel ring!” She spins in a circle, aiming her shouts at the air around her. “Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”

“Lydia,” Allison cautions her. “You’re provoking them.”

Lydia pulls out one of the daggers and raises her eyebrows at Allison. “Wasn’t that the idea?”

When nothing else happens, Lydia bends down and slices the blade through several of the mushroom stems, effectively cutting a hole in the ring.

Then there’s a rush of air that Danny wouldn’t quite call wind, but would be hard-pressed to find another name for. And a split-second later, Lydia’s gone.

“Lydia?” Allison calls out, stepping forward.

“Where’d she go?” Danny asks, glancing around. It’s a stupid thing to do because he knows he’s not going to see her, but it’s like losing something and checking the same spot five times as though it might miraculously materialize.

“Lydia!” Allison shouts, panic rising hot and frantic in her voice.

And then there’s a flash of light and it’s as though someone has pulled a curtain back in the vicinity of the faerie ring. Strange light streams through an apparent gap in mid-air. There’s still woods beyond it, but it looks like daylight. The air is shimmering and Danny can’t tell if it’s because it’s a hallucination, or faerie glamour, or if there’s a kind of veil still separating this other world from their own. 

Allison and Danny raise their weapons in unison, but no target presents itself, just the glittering parallel landscape with sunlight arcing in ways Danny has never seen before. It takes all of Danny’s willpower and significant focus on their current purpose to keep from stepping forward into that other plane. The way Allison keeps adjusting her stance suggests she’s doing the same.

And just as suddenly as it appeared, the gap is gone, obscured by a whirl of wind like a cyclone. Danny and Allison have to tilt their heads away from it and screw their eyes into a squint, but they keep their weapons up. 

When it dies down, everything seems very still and the silence presses in on Danny’s ears until he’s sure he can hear a buzzing. 

And then Lydia appears with her hand twined around Stile’s wrist.

“Stiles!” Danny shouts, rushing forward to keep him from falling on his face. But Stiles lurches away from him, flinches like he’s been burned, and it’s a good thing Lydia was there next to him to provide support.

“Stiles?” Lydia asks. He shuts his eyes and buries his face in her neck, amid her red curls. Lydia wraps her arm around his shoulder and murmurs in his ear. 

“You’re okay now,” Danny hears her say. “You’re safe. We got you back. You’re safe with us now.” 

He just stands there while Allison moves forward, arrow back in its quiver and bow slung over her shoulders, and positions herself on Stiles other side to take some of his weight from Lydia. He wants to help, but the way Stiles pulled away from him has left him frozen to the spot, sick with uncertainty. It’s mingling with the heady relief he felt on first seeing Stiles next to Lydia and he’s not entirely certain he won’t vomit. 

“Danny?” Allison says, bending as she and Lydia ease Stiles down to lean against a tree.

Danny looks up from where Lydia’s hand is pressed against Stiles’ abdomen.

“Can you call Derek?” she asks.

Danny manages to make himself nod and Allison turns back to Stiles, hands running over him to check for damages. He turns away and realizes he’s still holding the gun when he moves to reach for his phone. He flicks the safety on and swallows as he brings the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” Danny says. He takes a deep breath, hopes that Derek can’t hear how shaky it is, and says, “Yeah. We got him.”

*

Danny waits two whole days before going to see Stiles, mostly at Lydia’s request. He’d wanted to see him immediately, but for some reason Stiles hadn’t wanted to see him. Danny can’t figure it out, and Stiles wouldn’t say anything to Lydia about why. So Danny had spent the last two days trying to distract himself with Allison and failing miserably at it. Mostly he’d spent the time lying on his floor while Allison tried to talk him out of his misery and assure him that there was no reason Stiles would be angry with him, that he was just recovering from the experience, that it was a lot to deal with and he just needed some time.

All of which is probably true, but that does little to console Danny. He can’t stop thinking of the way Stiles had jerked back from him at the preserve, terrified and instinctual, like he’d thought Danny might hurt him. It makes his stomach churn every time and he hasn’t been able to sleep without the image working its way into his dreams. Then he thinks about how Stiles must be feeling after this whole debacle and feels even worse.

By the time Lydia gives him a reluctant go-ahead two days later, Danny’s not even sure he’ll be able to work up the nerve to see Stiles. He walks over to Stiles’ house so that it takes longer and he almost turns around several times. But he has to do this eventually. And, when he gets right down to it, he’s worried about Stiles. That in itself is enough to propel him forward.

Danny hovers outside Stiles’ front door for five whole minutes before finally bringing himself to knock. Stiles is slow answering, but that’s to be expected given everything he’s been through. He might even be sleeping. That thought nearly has Danny turning around and trying again later, but then the door opens.

Stiles averts his gaze the moment he sees who it is and Danny feels like someone is squeezing the air out of his lungs.

“Danny,” Stiles says. And it’s almost dismissive except for how quiet he is. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Danny says, trying not to sound insulted that Stiles even has to ask. When Stiles doesn’t respond, Danny asks, “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure.” Stiles opens the door wider, but still doesn’t look up at Danny.

They head into the kitchen where Stiles busies himself with pouring two glasses of water for them. Danny comes up behind him and lays a tentative hand on Stiles shoulder.

He flinches back like he’s received an electric shock and spills water all over the counter.

“Shit,” Stiles says, and even under his breath it sounds shaky. He reaches for the roll of paper towels and his hands are shaking too.

“Stiles,” Danny says, trying to get him to look at him and figure out what’s wrong, aside from the obvious. He reaches out to grasp Stiles’ hands and Stiles must see him in his periphery because he tenses immediately. Danny pulls back, mentally kicking himself for being unable to control his impulses because of course that was a bad move. Something about Danny is clearly threatening right now, and that is so far opposite from what Danny wants that it would be funny if it weren’t fucking cracking his heart open right now. 

“Will you please look at me?” Danny begs quietly. 

Stiles raises his eyes slowly, stopping when he can just see Danny.

“What happened?” 

Stiles shakes his head, eyes darting away again. “Nothing.” He forces a chuckle that sounds painful. “Captured by faeries. Regular day in the neighbourhood.” The casual tone is so forced that’s it’s like he’s not even trying to be convincing.

“Stiles,” Danny tries again. He keeps his voice low, tries not to sound so desperate, with little success. “Why won’t you look at me?”

Stiles flicks his eyes upwards again, but this time does a small, almost unnoticeable, double take, before raising his face completely.

Danny freezes, eyebrows slightly raised, not wanting to do anything to scare Stiles off.

Stiles huffs out a laugh—a genuine laugh, even if it’s small—and a smile starts to tug at his mouth. “Scars,” he murmurs, and for a moment Danny has no idea what he’s talking about. Then he raises one hand and traces the scar on Danny’s jaw with his index finger. “How did I forget about the scars?” he says, in a tone that suggests he’s talking to himself.

Danny has no idea what he’s talking about or why he’s suddenly fascinated by Danny’s scars, but he’s smiling, and he’s looking at him, and he’s not flinching away, so Danny’s going to take it.

“Stiles?” Danny asks, tentative, willing himself to set aside the feeling of Stiles’ fingers on his jaw and neck, which still haven’t moved and which feel so good that Danny’s forgetting how to breath.

Stiles looks Danny in the eyes, the pressure of his finger increases incrementally, and he grins. Danny swallows, hard, and tries to concentrate on something other than Stiles’ mouth. Stiles’ eyes roam over Danny’s face and Danny’s sure Stiles must be able to feel his pulse pick up. But he looks like Stiles again. No skittish, haunted, closed-off looks in his eyes. Just bright, curious Stiles.

“Danny,” Stiles says, and he’s so close that Danny can feel his breath on his face, can smell his clean-laundry, skin and soap scent. 

Danny presses his sweating palms against his own thighs, focuses on the rough denim, and uses all his willpower to stop himself from closing the mere inches of space between them. Because he thinks that’s where this is finally, finally going, but he needs Stiles to make the first move. Thinks that Stiles needs to be the one to make the first move. 

And then Stiles’ other hand finds its way to the back of Danny’s neck and Stiles presses forward, his lips gentle, hesitant against Danny’s. Danny feels so many things in that moment, when he opens his mouth enough to catch Stiles’ bottom lip between his own, that he wants to laugh, a surge of relief and affection and joy, as ridiculous as that sounds.

Danny lets his hands rest at Stiles’ hips, wanting to tug him closer, but still wanting to leave Stiles with most of the control for now. But Stiles surges forward, rocks his pelvis towards Danny so that Danny’s hands slip to the small of his back, catching and tugging at Stiles’ shirt. Stiles parts his lips enough to run his tongue over Danny’s top lip and Danny makes a desperate noise that would be embarrassing if he could bring himself to care about such trivialities. Stiles just smiles into it anyway, causing their teeth to clack together as he grabs at Danny’s hair.

Danny’s losing track of time now, spiraling into a mess of roaming hands, and eager lips until his back hits the counter and he remembers that at some point he needs to breathe. He pulls back reluctantly, dropping a quick kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth before resting their foreheads together. 

They’re both breathing too quickly and Danny can feel Stiles’ rapid heartbeat under the palm of the hand that’s resting against his ribs. Stiles is grinning like the sun, and Danny really wishes he could come up with an analogy that wasn’t so cliché, but his brain is buzzing with adrenaline and he doesn’t care as long as Stiles keeps smiling like that.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do that?” Stiles breathes out, close enough that Danny can feel his lips moving.

He chuckles in response, not really surprised, though he would have been a week ago. “We are so stupid,” he says.

Stiles laughs and Danny can’t help laughing along with him. An arm around Danny’s neck tugs him closer and their noses knock together, and Stiles is kissing him again, two fingers still pressed against the scar along his jaw. 

Then Danny rocks his hips forward and the energy around them changes. Stiles gasps and bucks forward to meet Danny’s thrust, and Danny can feel Stiles hardening against him. Danny works his fingers under Stiles’ shirt, dipping just past the waist of his jeans to get at the curve of his ass. Stiles is radiating heat and Danny drags the tips of his fingers upwards over Stiles’ back, under his shirt, imagining he can feel the moles and freckles that pepper his pale skin.

Stiles’ other hand tugs Danny’s shirt from his pants and Danny’s dick twitches as those long fingers trace over his abs, thumb catching in his navel. Stiles’ tongue is hot and insistent in his mouth and Danny feels like he’s about to burst from his skin, every nerve twanging taught with anticipation. Danny tightens his grip on Stiles and pulls him closer as he gets a thigh between his legs, grinding them together.

“Danny,” Stiles huffs out, breathless and clinging to Danny like he might disappear.

“Yeah,” Danny responds, meeting Stiles’ half-lidded eyes, and even with that Danny can see that his pupils are blown wide, leaving only a ring of golden brown. 

“Upstairs,” Stiles manages, kissing Danny again, sloppy and wet and so fucking hot Danny could die. “Upstairs,” he repeats, hooking two fingers through Danny’s belt loop and tugging him forward.

“God yes,” Danny responds, and nearly trips over Stiles, and then a chair, in his enthusiasm to get them to Stiles’ bedroom.

It takes them a stupidly long time to make it up the stairs, neither of them capable of going more than a few seconds without kissing one another. Danny stubs his toe, twice, on the same step, and Stiles jams his elbow against the railing at one point, swearing into Danny’s mouth and nearly biting his lip in the process.

They finally stumble into Stiles’ room, without any semblance of grace, and collapse onto the bed in a heap of limbs that involves an elbow to Danny’s ribs, and a knee precariously close to Stiles’ groin threatening to kill the mood. Eventually they manoeuver themselves into a comfortable position with Danny hovering over Stiles, his arms braced on either side of Stiles’ head. 

Danny kisses the side of Stiles’ jaw, lingers over his mouth, and then moves down his neck, tonguing over his collarbone and dipping into the hollow of his throat. One day Danny’s going to spend hours mapping Stiles’ skin with his mouth, but right now he’s impatient, so he moves lower, pushing Stiles’ shirt up around his chest and kissing over his stomach, nosing his way down the thin trail of hair that disappears beneath his boxers. 

Stiles breathes in shakily and the muscles in his stomach twitch and jump when Danny grazes his teeth over the very inviting hip bone. 

“Danny,” Stiles says, his hand a firm pressure on the back of Danny’s neck with his thumb pressing just at the tapered point of his scar. 

It’s insistent enough that Danny looks up from where he’d just been about to unbuckle Stiles’ belt.

“Not that this isn’t great and all,” Stiles says, and Danny recognizes that tone, the nervous tenor he gets when he’s about go off on an agitated ramble. “Because I mean, seriously, blow jobs, great, we definitely should continue in this line of action one of these day, but, uh…”

“Stiles?” Danny asks, freeing one of his hands to twine his fingers with Stiles’, trying to create a grounding point of contact, one that isn’t laced with vibrating sexual tension.

“Yeah?” His fingers flex against Danny’s.

“How do you want to do this?”

“Up here…I just…” Stiles pauses. Swallows. “I want you up here.”

Danny scrambles to obey, working his way up Stiles’ body until they’re face to face, the tips of their noses brushing together.

“More like this?” Danny asks, rocking his hips down.

Stiles’ eyelids flutter shut for a moment as he arches in response. “Yeah,” he breathes, straining up to capture Danny’s mouth.

Then frantic hands scrabble at the back of Danny’s shirt, presumably trying to find the hem to shuck it off.

“This,” Stiles gasps, finally getting a hold of the fabric. “Off. This needs to come off.”

Danny agrees most adamantly. He sits back on his heels and pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere over the side of Stiles’ bed. Stiles sits up to do the same and Danny is momentarily distracted by the flex and contraction of his abs. 

He snaps back to attention when Stiles goes for his belt. His fingers tug at the buckle and leather and work dexterously around the button and zipper, all while he mouths at Danny’s neck, hot wet kisses that prickle with chill when Stiles moves his mouth elsewhere.

Then Stiles grasps Danny’s cock through his boxers and his whole body bucks forward, bowing over Stiles and forcing him back on the bed. Danny gets his own hand between them and starts working at Stiles’ button.

“Why are we still wearing pants?” he mutters against Stiles’ temple.

“I don’t know, they’re terrible.” And Danny takes a moment to lament the loss of Stiles’ fingers around him before kicking his pants and boxers to the end of the bed and then grabbing hold of Stiles’ jeans to help him wiggle out of them.

Stiles arches up just as Danny grinds down and they both groan on contact, the sensation of their cocks sliding together already threatening to push Danny over the edge.

“Stiles,” Danny murmurs, the sound stuttering out of him, tripping along with his nerves and shuddering electric.

Stiles wraps his legs around Danny’s waist for better leverage and grabs onto Danny’s shoulders, nearly lifting his entire body off the bed in an attempt to get closer.

“Fuck, Danny.” His breath hitches, his hips lose their rhythm for a moment and he plants one foot back on the bed for stability, keeping the other hooked around Danny’s back.

They grind together, slick with sweat and pre-come and still not nearly slick enough, but somehow perfect anyway. Stiles arches his neck up trying to kiss Danny, but mostly just breathing into his mouth, his lips shining from licking them repeatedly, and it’s utterly, stupidly, infuriatingly hot. Danny is resigned to this being over quickly, knows that they’re going to come just like this, rutting against each other like high school kids. 

He can’t think of anything he’d like better right now.

Stiles slides one of his hands down Danny’s back and grabs at his ass to pull him closer still. Danny’s breath catches in his chest, and he squeezes his eyes shut, light shattering behind his eyelids as he thrusts once, twice more against Stiles before his orgasm tears out of him on a groan. 

He buries his face in Stiles’ neck, nose tucked against his collarbone as he shakes down from his aftershocks. A moment later he registers Stiles’ hands trailing up and down his back over the sweaty skin there. Their stomachs are sticky with semen and just as Danny notices that, he also notices that Stiles is still arching against him, seeking out friction for his still-hard cock.

Danny rolls onto his back and keeps his hands locked on Stiles’ hips to make him follow. Stiles gasps and makes a surprised noise between a yelp and a groan as he grabs at Danny’s shoulders and Danny can’t help grinning. Stiles grinds down, cock dragging against Danny’s pelvis, and Danny can feel his own cock twitch in response even though there’s not a chance he could get hard again this quickly.

Stiles’ hips stutter under Danny’s hands and Danny presses his thumbs against the jutting bones there, just to feel them, just because he can.

“Danny,” Stiles breathes. “Shit.”

“Close?” Danny asks, even though he already knows the answer.

Stiles nods and Danny slides one of his hands from Stiles’ hip so he can dip a finger between his ass checks, applying just enough pressure to Stiles’ hole that he lets out a choked moan. Then his whole body shudders against Danny, muscles shaking as his rides out his climax, making small twitching movements with his hips, torn between rutting against Danny and pushing into the light pressure of his finger.

Stiles collapses against Danny, his mouth open and breathing against his neck, leaving a patch of wet warmth on the skin there. Then he rolls off and reaches for the tissues next to his bed to give them a cursory cleaning. They’re going to need to shower later, but it’ll do for now, and the way Stiles presses back against Danny, curling into him with one leg crossed over Danny’s and the other flat against Danny’s chest, isn’t providing much reason for Danny move from this spot.

Danny touches his nose to Stiles’ and then leans in to kiss him, taking it slow now that they aren’t so keyed up, their nerves now a gentle hum after the persistent electric buzzing.

When they break apart Danny notices that Stiles has moved his hand back to its spot over Danny’s scar. He’s brushing his thumb over the small one under his eye. Stiles eyes are moving rapidly, taking in all of Danny’s face before finally settling to meet Danny’s gaze. Danny smiles at him, is helpless not to, and Stiles responds with a smile of his own, small and a little hesitant even as he shifts his hips to get closer. He swallows and drops his eyes and Danny furrows his brow in confusion.

“There was one that looked like you,” Stiles says after what feels like an age, his voice edged with a rasp.

His eyes flick up to catch Danny’s going wide.

“One…?” Danny asks, searching for clarification he’s not sure he wants.

“One of the faeries,” Stiles replies. He shakes his head, like he’s shaking it at himself. “It was all glamour, and I knew that, but it was still…”

“Did he…?” Danny can’t finish the question. Hates that he keeps trailing off, but his stomach is suddenly churning with the idea that this thing might have done something to Stiles while wearing his likeness. It’s no wonder Stiles didn’t want to see him.

“No,” Stiles says, his hand sliding around the back of Danny’s neck, fingers digging into his hair as he gently knocks their foreheads together. “Nothing happened. I mean, he wanted it to, obviously. I don’t know how they knew about you. How they knew that might work, but…” He grins, thumb pressing into skin next to Danny’s ear where his scar ends. “They didn’t know about these.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to have these scars,” Danny says, unable to come up with anything else.

“Ditto,” Stiles says softly, and he kisses Danny again.

Danny places a protective hand on the small of Stiles’ back, fingers splayed wide as he pulls Stiles in. Stiles shivers and tenses and Danny pulls back to ask if he’s okay, but Stiles cuts him off before he can start.

“It’s cold,” he says, tucking his arms down and trying to squirm closer to Danny in search of body heat.

Danny chuckles and leans up to tug the blankets over them. He tucks the blanket over Stiles’ shoulders and Stiles burrows into the warmth, laying his head on Danny’s chest. His eyes are starting to drift shut and Danny realizes he must be exhausted, can’t imagine he’s been sleeping very well, and then becomes suddenly aware of his own exhaustion because really, neither of them has been sleeping very well the last few days. So he lets himself fall asleep with Stiles a comforting weight against him.

One of these days he’ll have to remember to thank the sheriff for refraining from comment when they both stumble downstairs several hours later and find him sitting on the couch watching the basketball game.


End file.
